


Operation Duck Muzzle

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Muzzles, Public Blow Jobs, undercover in a bdsm club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Javert had tried to protest against this job in every possible way, but there was just no way to say no when your boss looked at you like that. Javert knew, because he had tried to protest the last time Chabouillet had given him that look, which was when the old ex-con had been assigned to him as a new partner.</i>
</p><p>Javert and Valjean are both working for the police. One day Chabouillet makes them do an undercover operation together in Montparnasse's underground S&M club. Javert thinks nothing can be worse than Montparnasse's taste in decoration, until he sees his taste in muzzles...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Duck Muzzle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow/gifts).



> Is it crack? Is it not? I don't even know.  
> All I know is that I've learned my lesson of never daring Daria again, who [actually drew Javert duck muzzle art](http://jammersminde.tumblr.com/post/104359772070/so-the-first-les-mis-post-i-make-on-this-blog-is). <3

Javert had tried to protest against this job in every possible way, but there was just no way to say no when your boss looked at you like that. Javert knew, because he had tried to protest the last time Chabouillet had given him that look, which was when the old ex-con had been assigned to him as a new partner.

The memory still made him glare with frustrated disgust at the way he of all people had ended up with a criminal for a partner. Former criminal, his boss was quick to point out, but secretly Javert thought that maybe what Chabouillet needed was a refresher course in patrolling the streets if he had forgotten the very basic lesson of once a criminal, always a criminal.

Although Valjean had proved useful in quite a few cases, Javert had to give him that. He still didn't approve of the tactic of using an ex-con to root out bigger annoyances in the underworld of Paris, but then, he wasn't the boss and Chabouillet had made it quite clear that he expected Javert's unquestioning adherence to the program some idiot far up high in the ranks must have come up with.

Which was why he now finds himself in the infamous club run by the even more infamous Montparnasse, trailing in after Valjean like a puppy. He wasn't quite certain what to expect. From the boy's profile, he would have thought of something garish and pretentious, riding the wave of 50 Shades of Grey to lure tourists in, so that Montparnasse's gang could have a go of relieving them of their money. Or maybe collecting tapes for blackmail.

Unfortunately, the idiot boy seems to have learned at least one lesson, which has to be the reason he takes one look at Valjean and has his friends accompany him to some unspecified area downstairs. Javert snarls with humorless amusement when he actually refers to it as a dungeon. 

Well. He can't say that he is glad to see Valjean leave, because their ridiculous cover story has the man clad in an expensive suit, the quality stuff, tailored to frame his impressive body just so, so that Javert keeps staring after those broad shoulders for far longer than he should.

The fool of a boy actually snickers when he notices, and Javert wants to snarl at him again, but remembers his own part just in time. 

His part is to play the simpering slave. He is still not quite certain what made Chabouillet think this was a good idea. Let the convict kneel! Let the experienced officer concentrate on getting the job done. But no. Chabouillet had suggested this division of their roles, and even though Javert is still seething inwardly, you can't really go against a superior's order, can you?

Even when Chabouillet had clearly taken leave of his senses, Javert adds silently when he is brought into a small lounge. He still can't believe that Valjean would just allow them to get split up, but when the idiot boy with his grating smirk said something about a dress code, Valjean had just nodded sagely and allowed them to manhandle Javert away.

Worse, he had said “Behave, boy,” and Javert had been forced to grind his teeth and bow his head and pretend that he knows no greater pleasure than to do the bidding of an ex-con. Clearly a mistake, no matter what the protocol for undercover operations says, because now he finds himself stripped, and cannot do anything about it but seethe in quiet humiliation, try to cover his genitals with his hands – his 'master' hadn't said anything about that, had he? So Javert doesn't see a reason to make this more amusing for Montparnasse, this fool who didn't even have the sense of his forebears of just going for an ordinary brothel. That is, unless Montparnasse, that foppish idiot, produces a riding crop, and uses it to force him to take his hands away, and so Javert at last stands naked before them, the foolish boy and three of his assistants or slaves or however they like to call each other in this establishment. 

He is still seething. He is also flushed with hot humiliation. All of that is to be expected, but what is not expected is how his cock is stirring at the eyes on him, and that wasn’t supposed to happen, he tells himself in despair, and wonders whether that is a fact he can leave out of his report later on. 

He has to bite his lip when they force him to his knees. It is all very ridiculous, he tells himself again, and yet he cannot disguise the way his body tenses with something that must be apprehension when one of the boy's assistants comes with a collar and leash of sturdy leather and fastens it around his throat. It is tight enough that he can feel it when he swallows, tight enough that his blood pulses there between his legs, and Montparnasse laughs and brushes his crop against his cock until he shivers and does not know where to look, embarrassed and aroused and still seething, this time at his own ridiculousness.

The boy laughs again. “Ah, the old man likes a bit of a challenge? Are you only showing off for us, with that grim look on your face? I've taught manners to quite a few like you. But I bet you are tame enough with a cock in your mouth. Maybe the old man will let us have a demonstration.”

Javert snarls from instinct alone when Montparnasse reaches out for his leash, and the boy draws back in astonishment. “That's no way to behave, not even for an old dog like you. If you won't play safely with the others, I must have you muzzled. We can't have accidents here, you understand. Imagine a mutt like you biting one of our guests!” He nods at one of his assistants; Javert waits on his knees, tense and annoyed at himself for his loss of control, and full of loathing for this entire hare-brained scheme. Who the hell had decided that he'd make a good slave? He can't even fool Montparnasse, who, as criminals go, has never been known for his intellect.

Montparnasse brushes his crop against the inside of his thigh in a chiding way, and despite his anger, Javert's breath hitches. His cock jerks with definite interest so that the boy laughs again, and Javert at last lowers his eyes with confusion and a seething annoyance at how his body is betraying him.

This shouldn't be good. He is undercover. He is vulnerable, among criminals. But somehow, by some twisted way, having their eyes on him leaves him lightheaded, and makes his blood pound there between his legs, and while shame is hot within his veins, it is interwoven with a strange yearning. He thinks of Valjean coming upon him like this, imagines Valjean's eyes on his hard cock, and the collar around his neck, and although he wants to weep from frustration, he shivers with need, and not with shame.

Perhaps Valjean will laugh, he tells himself. Perhaps Valjean will mock, the way he deserves to be mocked. And then he thinks again of Montparnasse's words, of a cock in his mouth, of the fly of that expensive suit being opened and Valjean's cock filling his mouth until he cannot breath, of everyone watching as he is made to suck off his partner, and instead of making him go soft with horror, his cock pulses with insistent arousal.

Then Montparnasse's crony returns with the muzzle, and it is not what Javert had expected. Not that he has any experience with this sort of thing, but you raid a few of these clubs, you end up with expectations of what a muzzle looks like. Javert has resigned himself to something garish and shiny and as 50 Shades as the rest of Montparnasse's club. Maybe a red rubber ball and black leather with the club's name embossed in gold, as pretentious as the rest of him. Maybe Montparnasse's initials.

Instead, the muzzle is plastic, and not a rubber ball at all. Instead, it is formed like a beak, and Javert stares at it in horrified disgust.

“Your master can take it off when you've learned not to bite, pup,” Montparnasse says, and Javert seethes again. Silently, this time. Nothing says possibly insane sadistic psychopath quite as much as a bright plastic duck beak muzzle, after all.

They fasten it in place with straps that go around his head. The muzzle fits tightly, goes under his chin so that he cannot open his mouth. Now all he can do is sit quietly and look up at them from eyes that are dark with rage, and they know it and snigger a little at the picture he must make. He wonders if this is a stupid ritual every newcomer to the club has to go through, or if they've figured him out for a copper as soon as they came inside.

They must have, he thinks again, certainly not even the most depraved can find pleasure from this nonsense, and all the while his own pulse throbs there between his legs, his cock hard despite his shame and the way they stare openly.

God, he hates this. He'll have them all in jail very soon. Montparnasse won't get off easy this time, he'll make sure of it, and no one will ever know the truth of what went on inside the club. At least that is what he tells himself, and tries to ignore the niggling thought of security cameras, and whatever backup team will come to their rescue going through the tapes later.

Javert has never in the days of his long career done a single thing not in accordance with the conduct expected of an officer of the law. Now, for the first time, he is tempted to use a quiet moment when this will all be over to steal into the office of the club to destroy a security tape or two.

But there is no time to think. Montparnasse's crop strokes up his thigh again, then he is made to rise, and he stands before them, with a hint of the old defiance still in him as they look at him and snicker. He shifts uncomfortably. He can't imagine facing Valjean in such a way. The thought of fetish gear alone had nearly made him laugh with disbelief right into Chabouillet's face, but he had resigned himself to the thought of a ridiculous latex vest, or leather trousers. He'd raided enough clubs like this to know that the dress code always rested safely on the far side of hilarious. This morning, Valjean had laughed at his griping and told him that he should consider himself lucky he hadn't ended up in one of those fetish maid costumes, and he'd been too horrified to ask just how Valjean knew about such things.

But now, he thinks as he is led down a stair, all decorated in Montparnasse's trademark garishness, now he would be grateful for a maid costume, if it meant that he wouldn't be led into a room stark naked, with his erection bobbing before him as if he enjoyed the entire humiliating farce, with a leash at his throat, and a fucking _duck muzzle_ forcing him to stay silent. And won't Valjean enjoy this.

His thoughts scatter when they enter what must be the main entertainment area of the club. Javert has seen the floor plans, after all, and the generous room is lit by lamps formed like candles, decorated with mirrors and sparkly crystal things that whoever does the cleaning for an underground S&M club must sure love dusting, and boasts alcoves with chairs and tables and other things Javert prefers not to think about.

In any case, the alcoves are deserted. Instead, everyone is gathered around the center of the room, and true to how his luck has played out so far, that is where they lead him, and where they make him kneel. Soft laughter runs through the room – that fucking duck beak, he thinks, and tries to ignore the way his cock throbs. They must think that he loves this. All the better for their cover, he tells himself, though he can't help but feel a hint of disgust. 

Even though they make him kneel, he keeps his back straight, and his eyes defiant – but he cannot quite look at anyone, not only because simpering slave is what is expected of him, even though he has a hard time filling that role, but also because he's wearing a fucking duck beak muzzle. He clenches his jaw. Hints of soft laughter and giggling keep running through the room, keeping his tension up, and his cock hard from the awareness that he is watched. He hates every minute of it, and most of all he hates how the shame makes him ache with need.

And then Valjean enters the room. Javert sees that familiar broad frame, still clad in the flattering suit that makes him seem at least two decades younger, if it weren't for his white hair, and his cock gives an eager jerk, and someone in the audience snickers. His mouth is dry, and he quickly lowers his eyes. He can't bear the thought of Valjean seeing him like this, and laughing. Who wouldn't laugh at the muzzle? It is only natural. But he can't deny that there have been nights when he thought of his irritating ex-con partner's strong hands, and that frustrating, gentle smile, and ached for something he knew he could not have until he was disgusted enough with himself to jerk himself off to thoughts of that powerful body overwhelming him with kindness and unrelenting strength.

He has never dreamed of Valjean laughing at him, but certainly that is just what he deserves. Still, the thought hurts more than it should, given that they are partners, given that Valjean has done 19 years in prison, given that--

Javert runs out of reason for why he should definitely not think of sucking off Jean Valjean, but there is still no laughter. He swallows when he hears the sound of steps instead. Valjean is coming closer. Probably to get a better look at the muzzle, he tells himself bitterly, but between his legs, his cock still stands hard and eager, and he can feel it there, the weight of Valjean's eyes as they linger on his cock – God, but why wouldn't Valjean look. That is their cover, after all! Everyone here has to believe that Valjean makes him suck his cock twice daily, and fucks him in a French maid costume in the evening for good measure. Why wouldn't Valjean look at his cock, and look, and say nothing?

Shame and heat move through his veins, make him shiver and then spread his legs more – an offer, almost, and after all that is what they are here for. That is who he is, for as long as they remain in the club. Javert the slave. There is no shame at all in arching his back, in sitting straight and exposed in front of this man, in exposing himself further in all the obscenity of his body's reaction.

He can tell Valjean later that he thought of the latest playboy spread. Porn he has downloaded. Hell, he'll tell him it was Montparnasse, the stupid, pretty idiot, who got him all hot and bothered.

Anything is better than admitting the truth that shudders through his veins with every heartbeat: that Valjean's voice is always warm and kind, and he wants to hear it whisper into his ear as they rest pressed together on a bed. That the suit fits Valjean in ways that should be illegal, and he'd sit up and beg like a dog to be allowed to suck him off. That he'd do anything, anything at all, to have Valjean take advantage of the situation, and loves him helplessly, impossibly, for the fact that he would never do such a thing.

That is who Jean Valjean is, the ex-con turned cop, and that is who Javert is: the willing slave, who revels in his shame, if only for this one night.

Valjean is still standing before him. Valjean hasn't laughed.

Javert takes a deep breath, as much as that is possible with the muzzle, and then forces himself to raise his head, to meet Valjean's eyes, and the answering heat there makes him shiver, and feel very uncertain all of a sudden. And then Valjean's eyes move down his face, and although he can see that he is trying very hard not to laugh, his lips twist into a smile, and he has to bite them to keep his amusement from spilling free.

Javert blushes hotly and turns his face away, knowing that the muzzle is still on him, knowing that he looks ridiculous with the beak, that he _is_ ridiculous, and how can he fault Valjean for laughing?

Valjean steps even closer, and the tip of his shoe nudges his thigh, just so. Javert exhales heavily. He is not quite certain what this means, but all the same, he allows himself a moment of impossible hope, and spreads his legs wider.

God, it's shameful. His cock is so hard, and they're all watching, _Valjean_ is still watching, and what does Valjean think of him now, when he has so often made biting remarks about Valjean's morality? But when his legs spread further, Valjean moves just a little closer, and when Javert at last dares to look up again, hesitant, awaiting more mockery, he can see that Valjean is holding out his hand.

For a moment, he is confused. Then, he once more remembers the weight of the leather around his throat; for a moment, he cannot breathe as he clenches his fingers around the end of the leash.

Slowly, almost without conscious thought, he raises his hand, holds it out. Something tightens around his chest so that he cannot breathe. It is not fear – or perhaps it is, but not a fear of what might follow, but the fear that perhaps, nothing might, and having reached out now, that thought is unbearable.

Valjean takes the leash from him. He does not yank it to prove his strength, but all the same the weight of the leash turns to reassurance. Valjean's hands are as kind and strong as they have always been as he calmly opens the muzzle and releases him from it.

Javert looks up at Valjean in quiet, breathless expectation, still not quite certain whether he can dare to believe in this turn of events. Then Montparnasse comes up to them, and Javert clenches his teeth, reminding himself that it is not Montparnasse they are after. No, Montparnasse will be put behind bars as a nice gift, once they've found the mob boss who's been said to frequent this establishment, but Montparnasse alone is not enough.

“You didn't tell me your pup bites, Monsieur. Perhaps you should keep him muzzled, until you have taught him how to behave?”

Valjean straightens, and for a moment, he is very quiet. So quiet that he can feel Montparnasse start to shift.

“He is no pup. He's more of a watchdog. Obedient, when properly handled. And we have no need of a muzzle. If you are afraid of his teeth, I have other ways to keep his mouth occupied.”

Javert very nearly allows an embarrassing whine to escape, but thank God for the leash and the way Valjean uses it to pull him close, closer, so that all he manages is a breathless groan before he finds himself face to face with Valjean's groin – and the tell-tale bulge beneath the well-cut fabric of his trousers.

Valjean's shoe rests between his legs now, presses against his cock in a way that makes him want to whimper and beg. Instead, he gives in to insanity, lets Valjean deal with Montparnasse, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Valjean's cock, licks and sucks the thick shape through the fabric until it is thoroughly damp and he thinks he can taste Valjean through his trousers.

It's their cover, he tells himself again, breathless. This is who he is today. If he wants to concentrate on sucking Valjean's cock, and letting Valjean deal with Montparnasse and the man they're here for – well, then he is just doing his job. After all, he has always been eager to see a job done well. 

Perhaps, in the end, this won't ruin anything. Perhaps--

And then Valjean pulls gently on the leash until Javert looks up with reluctance. Their eyes meet, and Javert's lips are still parted, mouthing gently at the head of Valjean's cock through his trousers. As embarrassed as he is, he finds he cannot stop, and Valjean watches silently, his breathing a little shaky now: Still, he doesn't protest, he doesn't move away, he doesn't even laugh.

Javert breathes hotly against his cock. Again he thinks of begging. If he has to be shamed, why not embarrass himself completely. For all he knows, Valjean will demand a different partner once this is over. Perhaps that will even be for the best. But right now, with his own neglected cock throbbing in protest between his legs, with his lips wet and tingling and his tongue eager for the smallest hint of Valjean's taste through the fabric, it almost seems like a deal worth making.

Valjean winds the leash tightly around one hand. The fingers of his other hand slide briefly against his cheek, wipe away some of the wetness on his lips.

Then he turns and says “Heel,” so perfectly dismissive of the way Javert follows obediently after him that Javert is still hard and lightheaded from desire when they meet the man they've come here for. And if that man laughs a little at Javert's pitifully hard cock, and if Valjean unzips his trousers so that Javert can suck him into his mouth with quiet, grateful enthusiasm beneath the table they share with one of the most dangerous men of Paris, then that is not something that needs to go into their report later. 

The mission is a success, that is all that matters. In more ways than one, Javert thinks, uncharacteristically quiet as he lets Valjean drive them home after all the briefings and reports. He can still feel the heat of Valjean on his tongue. He wonders if now is the time when Valjean will invite him inside for an awkward talk about how it would be better for both of them to each look for a new partner.

Instead, he finds himself taken to Valjean's bedroom, and stripped, and this time there is no muzzle, just encouraging murmurs as Valjean's still-rough ex-con hands touch him with nearly unbearable gentleness. This time, there is no audience, but he is hard all the same, and ashamed by how grateful the moans he makes sound when Valjean puts him on hands and knees, and opens him, and fills him.

This time, he breaks apart, is unmade, unraveled, melts beneath warm hands and lips until he is only sensation and need and the sating of all his soul has ached for. There is no mission, no mob boss, no report to force him to hold back. Valjean lets him break. Valjean holds him gently afterward, and he cannot speak, can only bow his head and press his lips to skin salty with their mingled sweat in a silent prayer for something which he still fears cannot be. He falls asleep with that fear heavy in his chest, even though Valjean's heart beats against his own with reassuring steadiness.

It's only when he wakes the next morning, and Valjean brings him a cup of coffee and a hesitant smile, that he dares to believe at last. 

He still calls in what few favors people owe him to have a certain security camera tape vanish.


End file.
